


castles made of the sand (fall in the sea)

by samimnot



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Angst, Burlesque, Dancer Harry, M/M, POV Third Person, Rich Louis, Sad, Unhealthy Relationships, What am I doing, club, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:42:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samimnot/pseuds/samimnot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry's been burning for too long</p><p>(or an au where harry's a burlesque dancer and louis may or may not be his way out)</p>
            </blockquote>





	castles made of the sand (fall in the sea)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loustrous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loustrous/gifts).



> idk how this happened but harry in a burlesque outfit? I can dig (I hope you can too)  
> i hope you like it!!
> 
> title from jimi's castles made of sand 
> 
> ((i also dont own anything or anyone))

i.

In this place, night was infinite. It began with going down a flight of twisting stairs, ducking into a dark hallway until finally arriving in a basement. 

However, what the speakeasy lacked in natural light was ultimately compensated by the spotlights placed around the room, nearly overwhelmingly so. Louis found himself beneath one of these, settled comfortably in a chair by center stage, drowning himself in stolen whiskey and soulful jazz. It was simply to forget his scars and lost comrades of days long past, terrifying days of confusion between dusk and dawn, moonlight casting shadows where they shouldn’t be. So he appreciates the brightness, the warmth of the crowd. He’s not so much here for the entertainment- the witty comedians paired with the scandalous dancers- but rather because he believes prohibition shouldn't deny him the right to forget, even just for a night. 

The first few dancers tease their way around the stage, to the sound of lewd whistles and catcalls, he finds his drink far more interesting. Only when the chatter within the entire bar ceases, does he bother to look up.

It’s a single dancer on stage, a lanky phoenix that seemed to emerge from the floating ash and cigar smoke in the bar. Louis sees pure white feathers and silky skin to match, with a pair of impossibly bright eyes peeking over top of the fan. The long stretch of his legs is visible too, tucking into a pair of kitten heels, and he takes his time as he sways across the stage. Louis catches a sweet smile as he shyly makes his way across the stage, accompanied by a strangely appropriate rhythm: the soft melody of the saxophone and the click of his heels.

Until he reaches dead center, which in a flurry of movement, one of his feathered fans clatters to the ground. He moves to cover himself and succeeds, with little more than wide doe eyes and flushed rosy cheeks. He collects himself and moves to continue his routine, until a comedian in the pit beside the stage stands, holding the forgotten mass of feathers and calls,

“I beg your pardon-”

And now the whole crowd, Louis included, holds their breath.

“Well,” the dancer drawls, “What are you begging for? You’re old enough to ask for it.”

Then everything seems to explode- the crowd into uproarious laughter, the band into full swing, the second feathered fan floats to the floor. The only thing Louis can see is that in the middle of it all, there’s half naked boy, with a smirk that holds far too many secrets, ignited on stage. 

In his fire he takes with him a bodice of magnificent beads, wrapping delightfully around the curve of his lean body, shimmering and shattering the light with every shake of his hips. The crowd bays as he sweeps across the stage, bending and teasing in the way he knows will get people talking. 

Louis nearly forgets he’s not the only member of the crowd, and it feels like burning when he tunes into what the audience is telling this boy to do. And the boy basks in the attention, prancing around stage, cupping his ear and telling them to call louder, throwing his pretty head back and laughing as the crowd gets more outrageous. 

“These things?” he yells back to them, tracing his hands up his body and tugging on his pasties. “Off?”

The response is overwhelmingly ‘yes’, but the dancer simply smiles. 

“Maybe next time.” 

With that, he exits the stage, fading back into the overwhelming darkness of this dim bar. The crowd calls him back, beckoning him by name. 

Harry. 

\--

ii.

The low light of dusk was all that remained of the dying sun, whose colors and greatness had slowly been bleeding out during the day. The passionate reds and dripping oranges had found their way onto the lawn and it was all theirs. Now, the golds and yellows were gone; instead worn around their necks and on their fingers and wrists. They clutched liquid gold in their hands, sipping it, deliberating while everyone craned their neck to hear what they had to say, while pretending not to. 

Harry always drank a little too much, Louis said he did until seemed to glow. It illuminated his pale milk and honey skin and made the red of his lips and cheeks the same hue of the waning sunset. It made him brave too, the ability to be that bright. He thrived on the attention given to him, man or woman, just power drunk and too pretty for his own good.

He’s done this routine so many times, the high he gets from being golden never seems to fade. Louis walks him around on his arm, recalling stories of their honeymoon or their high adventures in Europe. Harry is content to simply watch Louis speak, his eyes glow and so does his smile, smart looking in his tuxedo and bow tie.

And when they finally got home, the moon and stars paint the night sky, the sun continues to pulse within his body. He tells Louis so, and Louis just laughs his beautiful laugh. ‘Silly little goose,’ he says. When Harry stands in the doorway, refusing to take another step, Louis calls out to him. Then he steps towards him, wrapping his tiny body around Harry’s larger one.

“Tell me, baby,” Louis starts, “where is this sun?”

And then he’s kissing Harry everywhere, until there’s no glow to be spoken of, just bare limbs that lost it. He doesn’t fuck as if there’s a fire burning somewhere within his body, but acts like there is. 

He moans and cries out and takes everything Louis gives him, because he wants to find himself again. It's as energetic as he can muster and they explore each other in the evanescence of moonlight, clutching at silk sheets and mahogany headboards. 

\--  
iii.

Sometimes Harry believes Louis doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does. He knows he shouldn’t say anything, keep his mouth shut and appearances up, because in no other life would a Wall Street Banker marry a dancer. He convinces himself here are no questions to be asked, to cut his losses and recognize that all he’s left with is are scorch marks. 

But Harry often gets lonely in their house being by himself all day. He finds himself seeking refuge in the library, something he could never do when he worked. It’s a beautiful sprawling study, with soft leather chairs and heavy pens and books crammed and wedged on every possible surface, fighting to be the one picked off the shelf. There’s a transfer of the spirit of the books to his own being; the infallible American spirit, the spark of freedom and longing and revolution that bubbling under the streets and happening just out of his reach, beyond his window. Nearly burned hands are as close as he’s gotten to touching it, enough times to know it was not welcome in this house. He knew those things at one time, was those things at one time, when he was nothing. But now he’s something.

He only told Louis once, about a book he was reading, to which Louis just smiled and told him it was silly of him to think such things, not to worry his pretty little head. 

\--  
iv.

Harry's fire is engulfing him, faster than it should be. 

Louis is perfectly aware, but doesn't let it show. He sees Harry stare at the window, longingly down into the streets for hours, unblinking and watching as the sun comes and goes. It’s the same way he looks at art or listens to a record- desperately trying to memorize and comprehend and categorize, except it’s his feelings. 

Louis doesn’t understand what his boy sees in the streets that he doesn’t see in his home, because he has everything he could ever wish for in front of him. If not in front of him, within his reach. They both know the world is a terribly cruel place, probably more than most. Yet Harry still sits by the fireplace, cheeks red from the flames, a book forgotten in his lap, listlessly staring out at the darkness, watching the lights in the windows flicker on. Harry’s always been his guiding light, the only one he’s ever known, and he’s determined to keep him safe. It’s as sad as watching a candle simmer out, whose glow seems to be slipping into the darkness, melting into the shadows. 

It seems like another one of those evenings, until out of the blue, Harry walks past the red armchair, steers himself to the overhanging shelf. Louis watches the line of his back, the broad span of his shoulders, the sweet tuck of his waist, illuminated by the dim lights. He hears him humming, vocal cords of an old soul, as he lays a record on the phonograph. 

When he finally faces Louis, his eyes are wild and alight, the only part of his body that seems to still glow. 

“Dance with me.”

And who is Louis to say no?

He shuffles in the room from the doorway, on light feet, until he’s wrapped in Harry’s warmth. They sway and sing along, when one stumbles, the other does too. Harry is leaned against him like he’s making a home, with gentle hands slipping beneath his suit vest, removing the weights pressed against his skin. Louis intertwines their fingers before Harry gets any further, and brings them to his lips, kissing warmth into each cold digit.

“Doll- You with me? Harry just nods in response, eyes half lidded, teething his way down Louis’s neck. 

"Hey," Louis exhales "Look at me."

But all Harry does is suck his fingers into his mouth, before dropping to his knees right there. 

\--  
v.

It’s early, when Harry leaves. 

The pink sunrise dances on his back and his lungs greedily breathe in the morning air. His shoulder is weighed down by a bag bulging with books, tangled up in a few thin shirts and pairs of trousers. His fourth finger has new found freedom.

He has left one book however, but he knows Louis will burn it. 

He would too. 

There’s a note tucked inside the front cover, trying to explain how and why. Harry had been writing it for about three months, countless ink stains and paper cuts as a result of its painstaking creation. He let Louis know that he was all he’s ever wanted, but the night sky and the morning sun can never coexist. 

Harry feels the embers stir up in his chest as he walks, unsure of where he’s going, but knowing the burning within his chest will lead him.

**Author's Note:**

> it wasn't supposed to be sad but then iT WAS AND IM SORRY
> 
> Thanks for reading ur a trooper


End file.
